


Neither the World, Nor Time

by dwtbasv



Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: '70s, Bittersweet, Cute, F/M, Fluff, Food, Holidays, Ice Skating, Love, Romance, Sexual Content, Smut, meet cute, relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-15 09:00:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29806020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwtbasv/pseuds/dwtbasv
Summary: A newcomer to the big apple has a chance encounter with a handsome stranger, leading to one magical night in Central Park.Shoutout to BarreloBonkers, without whom this story would not exist.
Relationships: Proinsias Cassidy/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 2





	Neither the World, Nor Time

It was December of 1976 when I first met him.

I'd just turned 22 a couple of weeks beforehand, and only a few days before that had packed up my things and moved to New York City's Upper East Side. Despite the big city being vast and intimidating—and oftentimes downright dangerous—I was young, and eager, and in my stubbornness, I truly believed nothing could stop me.

New York wasn't anything like the sleepy, suburban Coconut Grove where I'd grown up, lined with palms, white picket fences and little boutiques. No. This place was always moving, lumbering, bustling, with a certain dull stench, like the city itself was alive.

That, and the chilly temperatures meant you had to keep a move on not to freeze. I told myself that was why it never slowed down. But I hadn't seen my first snow—not yet. In fact, the following month, I'd just miss the cold wave back home in Miami, bringing in the only snowfall my parents would ever witness.

See, I was a typist in Lincoln Square, and ahead of a week-long holiday off of work, I'd been called into the office to help wrap up some things. None of the other girls had volunteered, but I didn't mind coming in. The pay-and-a-half for the day was an enticing offer to a gal just getting her start in the city.

Dusk had just fallen when I was excused at 5 p.m. It was outside the front door of our office building that I first saw him, tall and lean, with sharp brows and features, wearing sideswept bangs with the smallest hint of shag at the sides, just covering thick sideburns that transitioned into bristly dark stubble. He had one hand tucked deep into the pocket of a ratty brown coat, and the other wrapped around the handle of a black umbrella, defiant against the evening's cloudless sky. From its shade, his eyes were turned upward in observation at the many-windowed skyscrapers. Perhaps he was a tourist, or like me—a newcomer to this wondrous place. I found him instantly burned into my memory. Whoever he was, he didn't quite belong.

In my loneliness, I was drawn to him. Not that I was about to do anything about it. If I was raised to do anything, it was to absolutely _not_ speak to strange men in bad coats—particularly ones who stood out like sore thumbs.

I had just begun to stride past him when, to my surprise, he called out to me. It was neither a cat call nor taunt, as I'd gotten used to on my walks around town, but a query.

"'Scuse me," he said, his tone warm, but urgent, and strongly accented, though my untrained ears couldn't identify from where. "Do I know yeh from someplace?"

The concentration in his furrowed eyebrows and craned neck told me this wasn't some pick up he used all the time. Either he was the world's greatest actor, or he really did believe he recognized me. But I'd never seen the man in my life—and I was realizing now he didn't have the type of face you forget.

"I think you're mistaken," I told him. I wasn't sure why, but I felt guilty, as if I were letting him down somehow.

Recognition dawned in his expression upon hearing my voice. Whoever this other woman was, I didn't sound like her. I found myself wishing that weren't the case. How silly to be jealous of my lookalike.

"Ah, sorry," he apologized, shaking his head, still staring slightly. "Yeh just seemed... familiar is all."

Something in me panicked as he began to turn away, like letting him go would be a horrid mistake. That was the power of a handsome face, I supposed.

I had a chance. Dare I take it? I feared I'd stutter, or jumble the words, but I forced them out as elegantly as I could muster as my heart pounded in my chest.

"Perhaps we could _get_ familiar?" I suggested, proud of my own forwardness, and the flash of his bright smile signaled success.

"Now there's an idea," he answered with a grin. "Yeh don't have anywhere to be tonight?"

"I don't celebrate the holiday, if that's what you mean," I said.

I awaited a barrage of questions about that, but it didn't come.

"In that case, I know of a great bar just up the way, here..." he suggested instead.

"Oh, you can do better than that," I teased him, surprised at the confidence in my words. Truly, I just didn't trust this man enough to drink with him—let alone allow myself to get tipsy with a stranger.Actually, I knew _nothing_ about him. What was I even doing?

"Alright then," he stopped to think. "There's this little place on the nort' side o'Central Park..."

I flinched at the mere mention of it.

"So your plan is to lure me deep into the rough part of Central Park, just after nightfall in the dead of winter?" I wondered aloud.

I didn't have to mention it was infamous for muggings, attacks, and worse.

And _he_ didn't need to know that I regularly cut across the south end of the park alone after work in order to save precious time getting home. I knew it wasn't the safest, and I'd been accosted by questionable men on a couple of occasions, but that hadn't been enough to stop me. Unwisely, I'd told myself that those horrid things only ever happened to _other_ people.

"No, I'm not _lurin'_..." he started, fumbling. "Listen, it's a skatin' rink, yeah? Called Lasker."

I hadn't heard of it.

"Not Wollman?" I asked.

That was the rink on the far south of the park. I'd pass it often on my walks, and though I was drawn in and enchanted by the giggling families and visitors as they dashed in figure eights, etching the ice with their blades, the admission prices were a bit steep for my liking. Maybe I'd try next year, when I'd saved up a bit, I told myself. I deserved that much.

"Nah, Wollman's full o' pompous arseholes," he snickered, and I was afraid I'd gone bright red as my cheeks flushed at his discourteous profanity.

"Well _, excuse_ me," I scolded roughly, "but that's _no_ way to speak to a lady. And—and Wollman is lovely. Absolutely lovely. I don't know where you get off..."

I expected him to argue back. That's what people always did. But he just watched me fume quietly, patient as a stone. And then I noticed he was holding back a smile.

"Do I amuse you?" I demanded. "Is that what this is?"

He paused before speaking. Did I imagine that he was holding back a smirk?

"Yer cute when yer mad, didja know that?" he said, and my blush must have grown three shades deeper. I had no bold or clever retort this time, and was relieved when he didn't wait for an answer. "Look, I'm sorry about the language 'n slaggin' off the place yeh like. I won't do it again. But I _will_ say that Wollman's far too crowded, always packed wit' tourists 'n the like. _Locals_ prefer Lasker."

Despite myself, I couldn't contain a sharp laugh. This man wasn't like any local _I_ knew. The accent, the way he dressed, the way he admired the moving landscape everyone else took for granted, all betrayed that.

"What's so funny?" he asked, and his smile told me he was bemused, rather than irritated at me.

"How much time have you actually spent in the city?" I asked.

"Oh, y'wouldn't believe me," he answered, but his rising tone wasn't discouraging me from asking more. In fact, he was pushing me to—and I had to know.

"Tell me," I whispered, and I realized I'd instantly become wrapped around his finger.

"Maybe 20 years, on 'n off," he grinned. "Give or take."

I studied him then and realized I couldn't for the life of me tell how old he was. In the shade of his umbrella, there were flashes of seriousness that made him look like he might be 30, perhaps even older. Other times, when he bared that innocent smile, I thought he might still be in high school.

Neither option made a lick of sense given his response, so I tried to ignore it. This must be some game. I hated that I was more than happy to play.

And ice skating? I'd only ever dreamed of it. Roller skating had been everything back home—a lot of my girlfriends hadn't even learned to drive because skating everywhere was so much more convenient. It wouldn't be too much different, would it? And yet the experience out on the ice, I imagined, would be unlike anything I'd experienced before.

"'N you?" he finally asked, shattering my frozen daydream. "How long've yeh been in New York?"

"19 days," I answered. Not that I'd been counting. It was a simple computation, was all.

"Well, then yer gonna need a proper introduction to the place," he said. "Now, if yeh'd be me guest..."

He extended a thin, pale hand to me, and against my better judgment, I placed my own wool-gloved palm in his. Then, with a grin, he commenced our journey northward, me scuttling behind him in order to keep up with his long stride along the concrete sidewalk, heading against the five lanes of one-way traffic driving toward us, the nearly freezing air numbing my cheeks.

We passed sights I'd become familiar with in my last three weeks. Tucked into the imposing cityscape were four- and five-story apartments with zigzagging fire escapes, each sitting atop cheery ground-floor delicatessens and bodegas and restaurants. It was only when traffic crossed and we were forced to stop at a crosswalk that I realized how much the brisk walk had warmed my bones.

We moved on and on, and soon, we were farther north than I'd ever been on this side of Central Park outside of a taxi. All the while, the man rattled on and on about the locales we passed. He certainly was familiar—or at least he acted it. The matzah ball soup here was _excellent_ , this place had an underground poker tournament in which he regularly gained and lost small fortunes, and this corner was where he once saw a man with a beard of bees. Half of it was nonsense. But I couldn't help but think it was all _good_ nonsense. I concealed my delight, in the off chance he turned back to catch me smiling. It was too early to give him that satisfaction, I thought.

When it had become truly dark out, he lowered his black umbrella, collapsing it back into a sleek point, which he held casually over his shoulder. That was odd, I thought, but I'd certainly seen stranger since I'd arrived here.

I wasn't quite sure how much time had passed when we arrived at 100th Street and it was time for us to turn eastward, walking another block between two walls of towering apartment buildings before the park ahead came into view. As we drew nearer, I saw that its trees were mostly bare, and in the dark of the new night I could barely make out the piles of fallen fiery red and orange leaves at their feet.

We had to wait at a crossing before stepping into the park proper. At the intersection, a deep shiver overcame me. I wasn't sure if it was the chill or the thought of trudging deep into the northern half of the park, with its notoriously unsavory visitors, in the dark of the night.

"Yeh cold?" he asked me. I was bundled up much more warmly than him, but he seemed fine in the frigid weather.

I nodded, and he held his arm out, and motioned for me to come closer to him. I shouldn't have, but the crook of his arm seemed so inviting, and soon I found myself cradled up to him, his arm wrapped around me loosely as his generous warmth seemed to melt the cold away. I held onto his elbow with one hand as we walked, and soon forgot I'd been chilly at all.

There was a road into the park, but we took the wide concrete trail branching off from it on the left side, illuminated by old metal street lamps. The second we stepped foot on the premises, the rumble of the city went silent behind us, as if we'd just traveled into some other realm.

We walked under the sprawl of gnarled, winter-worn tree branches, the sound of rushing water coming into earshot. The source of the sound became apparent—a flowing rivulet to the left, which led off into a wide pool, steaming slightly in the cold.

"Didja know Central Park is bigger'n the entire country o' Monaco?" he asked me.

I shook my head, and he grinned yet again, and we continued onward. I had to wonder if it was even the truth—but it was the kind of unusual knowledge that would live in the back of my head for the rest of my life.

As we traced them, there was something about the winding, whimsical curves of the trails that made them feel like something out of a fairytale, with branching paths that each led to different adventures. It quelled the nagging voice in the back of my head warning me of danger as he selected a fork along the babbling water. It led eventually to a grand stone archway. Its shape reminded me of a thick castle buttress, and the water flowed not around, but under it to the left of our walking path as we passed beneath it.

North of that, I felt we'd been transported into yet another world. The water disappeared and the skeleton-like trees gave way to a dense thicket. Here the big oaks and maples and elms hadn’t quite given up their ghosts, still flush with green and yellow and orange. The sparse lighting made them spark from the dark like bonfires, and we followed additional narrow paths, and traversed wooden bridges. Here, the trail was constantly forking, and I wondered if he even knew where he was going. However, he never stopped to think twice, just waltzing us ahead, and deeper into the depths.

When he did stop us, he made his way to a shrub beside the trail that I wouldn't have noticed otherwise. It was covered in little orange flowers, with their petals bursting from a center point in long curls. He balanced his umbrella against one leg as he broke one of the flowers from the plant with one hand, and then deftly stuck the stem through a free buttonhole at the top of my jacket.

"Witch hazel," he explained. "Fer peace."

I brought the small bloom to my nose and inhaled. It smelled of spice and root beer.

"Did you drag me all the way out here to pick me witch hazel?" I asked. It came out harsher than I wanted, and I recoiled slightly at the remark.

"It was on the _way_ ," he explained, only slightly exasperated. No offense seemed to be taken. "'N honestly I was lookin' fer somet'in' better, but it's dreary December 'n beggars can't be choosers." He paused before adding, "I'm the beggar in this situation, if yeh were wonderin'."

Good, because I was about to protest.

"A bunch o' very important films were shot here in the park as well," he added as we approached another impressive rock bridge. "Y'seen any of 'em?"

I'd never exactly been a film buff. I rarely went to the theaters to see the old double features when they played. And even if I _had_ incidentally seen the park in a movie before, I probably hadn't been paying enough attention to be able to retroactively recognize this wondrous place.

"I might need a hint," I confessed, and he was more than happy to provide as we entered the mouth of the deep, pitch-dark tunnel under this bridge.

 _The Way We Were?_ No siree.

Going down into the dark of the night I had to allow him, and the sound of running water near our feet, guide me. I should have been shaking with fear, but I had a good distraction.

 _Breakfast at Tiffany's_? I knew I should have seen it, but no.

In the blackness, he never faltered, always moving forward toward our destination.

 _Death Wish_? No dice.

I trusted him implicitly, as silly as that was, even as we passed shadowy figures huddled in the ink blackness, doing who knows what with their disposable lighters.

 _On the Town_? _The Apartment_? _An Affair to Remember_? _The Producers_? No, no, no, and no.

We were in the clear again, and even the dark of outside seemed bright thanks to the light of a distant street lamp. It was a huge relief.

That, and the fact he didn't seem upset or paint me as so _uncultured_ , the way some men took it personally when I wasn't knowledgeable about their obscure passions. I got the impression he just wanted to get one _right_ , and with his encyclopedic knowledge, he actually might have gotten one some day if I'd have allowed him to keep guessing.

"I don't get out to the cinema much," I shrugged, almost embarrassed now.

"Well if it's not yer t'ing it's not yer t'ing," he shrugged. "Me? I see 'em all."

I felt jealous again. I wished I had at least one in common with him—something that might connect us. And goodness, it felt childish to even consider it.

"Do you have a favorite?" I asked. "Maybe something to look out for when they're playing the oldies?"

"There's one called _Portrait o' Jennie_ yeh might like," he answered, without thinking twice. "It's about this feller, an artist, who meets this lass in the park—but she's wearin' these old-timey clothes, 'n then she disappears. But he keeps runnin' into 'er, 'n every time 'e does, she's years older. She becomes this big mystery, 'n his muse 'n he falls in love wit' her. 'N... well I don't wanna give it away but it's a good one. Sticks wit' yeh."

"I hope to see it someday," I told him, and I meant it. Its plot was turning around and around in my head. It seemed exactly the kind of tragic, romantic love story I'd invent for myself. It sounded like magic.

And just then, right in cue, the back of the rink came into view ahead, just a huge, brutal rounded wall of concrete coated in lewd graffiti. I hoped and prayed the front would look better than its rear.

As we looped around to see, I noticed the chain link fence surrounding the icy rink and the small handful of skaters dancing around on the ice, drowned in bright white light from above. I imagined there'd be long lines stretching out from Wollman right now, and in comparison, this place was a ghost town. It seemed bigger—or maybe that was only because it was so empty. It wasn't exactly in disrepair, just... quiet. The muted energy of the place tempered the excitement that had been building within me all night.

" _This_ is where the locals come to skate?" I balked. "Nobody's here."

I had to wonder, was it the fact it was closer to the poorer parts of town that prevented people from skating here—or was it something else?

"The look keeps out the posh snobs," he answered with delight, letting me loose before he ran ahead, shouting back at me playfully. "The calm is a good t'ing. Leaves the ice smooth as silk. Trust me. 'N _look_ at those prices."

All right. At a dollar per person to enter, it was less than half the price of its competitor.

"Fine," I said, impressed but hiding it. "But you're paying."

"Fuckin' hell..." he muttered, and I glared at him. He winced. "Sorry! Sorry. Alright—but only cos yeh asked so nicely."

The remark was a bit impudent, but I supposed I deserved it, didn't I?

We approached the counter together. On any other Sunday, the rink should have been closed by now, but seeing as it was the holiday, they'd stay open long into the night. It was nearly 6 at the moment. Four hours would be more than enough time.

He bought entry tickets and skate rentals for him "and the bird," prompting me to jab the point of my elbow into his ribs before he corrected to "young lady." He also paid for a shared locker for my bag and his umbrella. He handed me the key and my pair of sightly pungent white ice skates, and off I was to the ampitheater-like rest and storage area, throwing my bag and low heels into the tall locker and hastily tying on my skates before I took off like a fiend, leaving the keys in the lock for him.

The hobble to the rink itself was slightly awkward, but once my blades hit the perfectly even ice, gliding around in the cold was like flying. It felt so natural, like I'd been doing this my entire life, and I gave myself to it. I loved the smoothness of it—no bumps or friction. Just perfect, flowing movement. There were a dozen other skaters at most tonight, and the place was large and empty enough that I could race, and twirl, and figure-eight to my heart's content without bothering a soul.

I was speeding along when I heard the sound of carving ice approaching quickly behind me.

"That desperate to ditch me?" he called out, and I slowed slightly to allow him to catch up. He was quick, yet slightly clumsy, in his skates. His approach was inelegant, but it mostly got the job done.

"I don't go on dates with slowpokes,"

I teased him.

"So this is a date, then?" he poked back, grin roguish, and I knew I must be blushing again because my cheeks felt like they were on fire.

"Try to keep up," I said instead of answering, skating ahead again. Maybe, by the time he did, he would have forgotten about the whole thing.

Every time he was close, I'd outmaneuver him, shifting direction suddenly so he was actively getting farther and farther away, and I'd watch over my shoulder as he'd make a slow curve until he was headed toward me again. Even in a traditional speed contest on a straightaway, I knew I would be quicker. I wasn't even _trying_.

It was partly a race, partly a game of tag, and I giggled like a fool each time I eluded him. Perhaps I was taking this too far. But each time I turned to look at him, he was laughing just as hard. I hadn't had fun like this since primary school. I had to wonder why that was.

Eventually, I thought it would be generous to slow down a bit for him. It wasn't out of pity, I told myself.

And when he got close enough he said, ever so gently, "Yer glowin', love."

That nearly stopped me in my tracks. Perhaps it was his recognition—I _felt_ like I was glowing, inside and out—or maybe it was what he'd called me. Perhaps that word was something casual for him, that just rolled off the tongue at any nice girl he met. But to me it meant more, and that was the only reality my heart could accept in that moment.

He left me speechless. So instead of saying a word, I reached an open hand out to him. He approached, and entwined his fingers with mine, and together, we skated shoulder to shoulder, wordlessly, for a long while. Our movements synced—left skate, right skate, left skate. If not for my euphoria, the silence might have been uncomfortable. Instead, the quiet was bliss.

I realized now that we wouldn't have been able to do any of this down at Wollman. I'd have been forced to slow down, and take things easy, and take caution not to run over children and bump into falling tourists. It would have been noisy, and claustrophobic. I might have still felt some kind of rush, but not _this_... and now this was all I wanted.

"How long have you been coming here?" I eventually asked him, breaking the silence hanging in the air.

"Almost a decade," he explained. "Since it opened, basically. Not that I'm a regular or not'in', I been here four or five times."

I hoped he wasn't a regular, with the ungainly manner in which he skated.

"So, do you bring a lot of women here?" I had to ask.

"Never," he answered. "Not that I don't get out. It's just... Why expose me secret winter getaway?"

"Well then, why share it with _me_?" I wondered.

"Yeh looked like yeh needed it," he said in a whisper. "'N I t'ink I was right. Look at yeh. Where'd yeh learn to skate like that?"

I was probably grinning from ear to ear. He'd been right about all of it.

"Miami," I answered. "Roller skating, actually. This is just like that but... better."

"Yer a natural," he beamed. I thanked him, and then we made a few more lazy, magical laps along the outskirts of the rink before he released my hand.

"T'ink yeh can still out-skate me?" he challenged, and without missing a beat I took off again with a laugh, leaving him in my icy dust.

I couldn't say how long we sped around the rink like that, and the number of skaters on the ice dwindled as it grew later and later. At long last, it was time to feign exhaustion and allow him to catch me again. He'd earned that much.

When he did, he grabbed both of my hands, and sent us into a spin, our inertia twirling us around and around and around. Goodness, his smile was incredible, and those _eyes_. I'd thought they were a deep brown, but no. They were a rich jade, veined with amber streams, and while I typically couldn't stand to look anyone in the eye for too long, I couldn't look away. I felt I could look forever.

Our spin was slowing, now, and I realized I wanted nothing more in the world than for him to to lean in and kiss me. The desire was all-consuming, and attempting to think of anything else was futile. And then he was drawing us closer, closer, closer...

_BRRNMMMMMMM!_

The horrible blare of a horn rang over an intercom and broke me from my trance.

"Attention Lasker Rink patrons," read a sleepy, monotone voice. "The rink is now closed. Please exit the skating area. And have a very happy Christmas Eve."

She didn't _sound_ like she wanted us to have a happy Christmas Eve. And was it really 10 p.m. already?

As we reluctantly returned from the ice, hand in hand, I realized the two of us were the only skaters left. I wondered how long it had only been us, unable to notice anything beyond the little world we'd created together.

We changed back into our shoes, grabbed our things and returned the skates as we were shooed off the premises. What _now_? We stood back on the trail, branching out in three directions, all leading to their own destinies. It was late, but to head home now seemed such a shame.

"Yeh hungry at all?" he finally asked, and it was an incredible relief. Come to think of it, I hadn't even had much of a lunch. I could absolutely do with a bite.

"Famished," I answered. "But what's even open at this time of night?"

"Oh, I know a place," he replied, flashing that stunning smile. I'd never get tired of that. "If yer willin' to take a bit of a detour."

My eyes narrowed.

"How much of a detour?" I asked.

"Well, it's at, uh…” he paused to think. “117th and 1st.”

 _What?_ That would be a half hour walk into East Harlem, one of the city's least desirable neighborhoods. It _sounded_ like an awful idea—but I supposed so had traipsing through the north of Central Park, and that had led to the best night of my life.

"What's worth going all the way up there?” I asked, requiring some convincing.

“Patsy’s Pizzeria,” he answered.

“ _Pizza_?” I rebutted. “There’s pizza _everywhere_.”

“Right, but this place basically _invented_ the New York City pie. Listen, if it's not the best yeh've had, yeh can tell me to f..." He caught himself before saying anything too unbecoming. "Then I'll quit annoyin' yeh ’n leave yeh be.“

I didn't _want_ him to stop annoying me. In fact, at the moment, I found he didn’t annoy me at all, bizarre suggestions included—even if I would never admit that to him.

"Deal," I told him, extending my hand. He shook it, and we made our way up the northern path.

It was probably less than five minutes until the park ended abruptly at the street, and I found my body not quite willing to step over that threshold.

“Pardon, but can we stop here for a moment?” I asked him. The very last bench before the park’s edge was a welcome respite.

“Are yeh tired?” he wondered. “We don’t have to go all that way if it’s too far. I’m sure I’ll figure out somet’in’ else…”

“No!” I answered, a little too insistently as I took a seat at the wooden bench with wrought iron armrests, painted a deep forest green. “I just… wanna take it all in.”

He nodded, knowingly, and then took a seat next to me. There was a magical glow to this place, even with the trees naked and lifeless, in the low park light. I didn’t want to miss a single detail, and I yearned to recall those intricacies until the end of time.

All the while, I felt he was bursting to speak, but holding off. For me. The moment remained unspoiled until I couldn’t take it anymore.

“You want to say something," I finally prompted him.

“Just that I heard somewhere there are mor’n t’ree _t’ousand_ benches in Central Park,” he blurted. “T’ought yeh should know that.”

“Thank you,” I told him. There was something so whimsical about that knowledge. “I… appreciate your sharing that.”

I thought about it—three thousand steady spaces to take in your surroundings, to admire the changing atmosphere, to rest your weary feet before being forced to return to the rush of city life. I realized I was running my fingers along the metal arm rest to my side as I took in the stars, and the wintry smell of the place, and the warmth of my generous date.

"All right," I announced after a few more moments, standing back up, with a little sniffle from the cold. "I'm ready."

He rose too, reaching down into a front pocket of his coat to remove a silky crimson handkerchief. He handed it to me, and I as politely as I could, I wiped at my slightly runny nose, before he insisted I keep it, and took my free hand as we finally left Central Park.

"So Patsy's," he explained to me as we walked, "is where New York _got_ its pizza, alright? Without Patsy Lancieri—rest his soul—none o' this culture would exist."

"That's a bold claim, even for you," I teased him, barely paying attention to our surroundings as I got more wrapped up in his musings. These streets didn't seem so bad—or maybe, in this company, I simply felt safe.

"Well, first of all, what's the point o' makin' claims if they're not gonna catch people's attention?" he asked. "Second, it's _absolutely_ true, alright? Wit'out Patsy's, there's no thin-crust pizza. What kind o' world would that be?"

"You've got a point," I conceded. I couldn't imagine the pizza here any other way.

"This place opened back in Nineteen T'irty-T'ree, yeh don't just stay open four decades if yer not the best," he added. "And... _and_ they invented sellin' pizza by the slice. Can you imagine havin' to buy the whole pie whenever yeh wanted pizza?"

It certainly was hard to envision, especially as a single gal living on her own. I genuinely could not picture this other tragic, backward version of the city in which only full pizzas existed.

"Alright, you've convinced me," I told him, my mouth watering now at the thought. New York truly did have the best pizza I had ever had, and tasting the finest of all the city's options? I wondered if it could even pale in comparison to what I was dreaming up.

"If we're lucky, we might have a run-in wit' one o' Patsy's more famous patrons," he said. "Sinatra put the place on the map, but Dean Martin' n' Joe DiMaggio are regulars, too."

Now, this place was beginning to sound too good to be true.

"Are you implying you expect us to stumble upon Frank Sinatra at 10:30 at night, on _Christmas Eve_ , buying a slice of pizza?"

"Well, don't rule it out," he said with a slight huff. "Yeh start t'inkin t'ings can't happen, makes 'em not happen, d'yeh know what I mean?"

It was a philosophy I hadn't considered before.

"I suppose," I answered.

"Course, Patsy's Pizzeria's not to be confused with Patsy's Restaurant" he continued. "The _restaurant—_ totally different owner _—on_ West 56t', now that's a regular meetin' spot fer the stars."

"Wait," I protested, trying not to whine. The place was renowned for its incredible dishes and ambiance. "That's only a few blocks from the office. You could have taken me _there_?"

"I s'pose I could've," he laughed, "though I'm not exactly rollin' in veal rollatine marsala money at the moment. That, 'n if I'd asked yeh, after two minutes o' knowin' yeh, to come wit' me to try to stalk Al Pacino or somet'in', I t'ink yeh woulda slapped me right in the face."

"That's... accurate," I admitted, feeling a bit silly now. "And, we probably wouldn't have gone skating in the park, would we?"

"Doubtful," he smirked. "Not wit' stomachs full o' pasta. And yeh live here, y'know. Yeh've got plenty o' time to run into Don Rickles or Tony Bennett or the ghost o' JFK."

"There is no ghost of John F. Kennedy!" I protested, maybe too emphatically. After all, it was dark out, and I lived on my own and didn't want to even consider thinking about those things. I wasn't superstitious but... well, maybe sometimes I was.

He seemed taken aback by my seriousness. I moved by body closer to his, requiring the shelter of his warmth.

"Alright, alright," he said, reassuringly, as his arm was draped back around me. "Ghosts are just made up, and even if they _aren't_ they're probably not former presidents, or in the state of New York, or anywhere near Italian restaurants. Forget I said anyt'in'. Better?"

"Yes," I sighed. "That's better."

And I really meant it.

And then before I knew it, Patsy's Pizzeria was in front of us, its blue signboard with white lettering lit up in the dark next to a closed salon and a Chinese restaurant that sold both fried chicken and fried rice. A red neon sign read the shop's name in swirling cursive in one of the windows of the shopfront, painted quite dark, which had two front doors. Clearly, they'd become too big to be just the one property, and expanded.

A wide, screenless window to the side of the right door was slid open, and a counter turned it into a makeshift bar, where a solitarily bearded figure sat, savoring each bite of his pizza contentedly.

"I was t'inkin' we get takeout fer the walk home," he suggested, "but we can eat in if yeh like?"

"No—I like your suggestion," I told him, and he beamed. He skipped the shop's first entrance, heading over to the second before opening it wide for me, gesturing inward with his open palm.

"After you," he said.

As I stepped inside, out of the December chill, I took in the mouth-watering scent of bread and cheese and tomato, and sighed deeply. I suddenly felt as if I were starving, and I had some high expectations of the meal to come.

The tall counter in front of us made this space feel tiny and crowded. It was stacked high with white pizza boxes—both smaller boxes for individual slices, and larger ones for full pies. I hadn't yet mentioned that I didn't eat pepperoni, but it appeared I didn't have to. According to the signage, their ready-made pizza was cheese-only. Just beyond the counter was the entrance to the kitchen, which gave off the coal-scented heat that filled the place.

"Do you have a big fridge?" he asked me.

"Do I... sorry?" I answered. I didn't quite follow.

"Your refrigerator," he repeated. "Do yeh t'ink one o' these big pizza boxes'd fit? Believe it or not, the pizza's just as good cold the next day."

"Yes," I answered. "I believe so..."

"'Scuse me," he shouted over the counter to someone I couldn't see over the boxes. "One pie, please."

He exchanged two crisp $1 bills for an enormous box, which he held carefully in both hands before gesturing with his head for us to get out of there.

Back outside, he laid his umbrella against the wall for a second before opening the pizza box for me like a chest of valuable treasure, revealing an enormous paper-thin cheese pizza, sliced into eight perfect pieces.

"Have yer pick," he said, and I reached in and selected the smallest of the slices. It was still absurdly big, and its flimsy crust drooped immediately in my hand, so thin the light shone through it, the point facing directly toward the bottom of the box as I lifted it.

But it wasn't my first day in the city, and I knew how to handle this. I folded the pizza in half lengthwise, which gave it some added stability, and with two hands, held it at the crust and the center in order to get my first bite.

Perhaps it was because I was so hungry, or maybe it was the good company, but what should have made an ordinary pizza—mild mozzarella cheese, bright and sweet and uncomplicated tomato sauce and a chewy, barely there crust dusted in an even thinner coat of dark soot—added up to one of the best things I'd ever tasted. It was barely even warm, but the way the cheese had solidified worked entirely in its favor, and my eyes closed involuntary as I chewed, like my senses wanted to shut out everything but this pizza.

"I t'ink we've got a convert," he said, muffled by the wide slice of pizza dangling crust-first from his mouth. He was rearranging things, the umbrella now splayed length-wise across the top of the pizza box. He repositioned one arm around the box for a better grip, and then masterfully folded the slice with his free hand before beginning his meal.

"So I won't be forced to send you away," I said, my tone serious but my smile impossible to hide. "It's delicious. _Truly_."

"Oh, I had no doubts about that," he replied, his mouth full. I should have hated it—the sound of his chewing, his strong accent further obscured by food—but at this point I was beyond caring. How dangerous that was. I thought I could get let him get away with almost anything. "Now I reckon we've gotta head sout'?"

He was right. I didn't quite know how long the trek back home would be—much longer than the walk here, I was sure of it—but I don't believe I wanted it to end. If I could have pushed the boundaries of this night, and extended these hours into eternity, I think I would have traded away my entire future for it.

I had to settle for just telling him yes, and then we began down 1st Avenue, the streets more eerily quiet than I'd ever seen them. But it was never silent. No—through his first slice, and then his second, my date explained the critical nature of Patsy's coal-fired ovens, and how pizza like this was already becoming a dying art. How the simple act of eating could keep it alive.

As he did, I gingerly nibbled at my slice. I was still a lady, after all. But I realized I could have listened to him read the Yellow Pages and it would still be music. His voice was the perfect accompaniment to my meal.

When I got to the outer crust, embedded with big, crunchy bulges full of air, the crust became delightfully crisp, ending the slice with a wonderful new texture. When I'd taken my last bite, I was surprised to find I was still hungry for more. He was already holding the box open for me, and I happily grabbed another slice.

He now talked of the colorful and sometimes terrifying characters he'd met taking New York Taxis, and while he spoke of them all in the positive, they made me adamantly refuse when he offered we hail a ride for the rest of the way back. He spoke of his coming to America, being greeted first by the Statue of Liberty as the boat puttered into Ellis Island. He reminisced about Irish pubs, and the friends he'd made and lost along the way—his rich history with the town undermining his youthful vigor. Perhaps he was full of lies, but I giggled and ate all of it up, addicted to him.

It must've been well past midnight when we arrived at the small set of concrete stairs leading up to my apartment building, made up of seven stories of brick. I was floating on air, light and joyous with the energy of this beautiful night.

Before he could wish me a good night, I had to say something.

"You're free to come up, if you like," I blurted. I made no effort to sound sultry orbeguiling. I didn't dare come off as desperate as I felt, aching with something that probably wasn't love, but was the closest I had ever come to it.

He smiled, and then paused.

"Listen," he said, quietly, earnestly, taking my gloves in his hand atop the pizza box. "I'd like that very much. But I need yeh to know I'm skippin' town in the mornin'... 'n look, I swear it's not'in' to do wit' not wantin' to be here. Wit' you. I'd stay if I had a choice."

I didn't believe him. But I didn't care. He was beautiful, and mystifying, and I wanted to be with him. Needed to be. Heartbreak would be inevitable either way. It always was.

"You don't have to lie," I assured him, though my stomach knotted in on itself. "I can take it."

His strong brows bunched in the center of his forehead, and he stepped back and opened his coat, reaching for something in his inner pocket. He revealed the ticket to me, like some kind of exonerating evidence.

It was a for a flight, LaGuardia to the New Orleans International Airport, departing at 7 a.m.

"You gotta run off to see your girlfriend?" I huffed. The quiet sadness in his expression impelled me to try again. "Wife?"

He shook his head.

"It's me son," he answered, and the way he stared deep into my being, I did believe him. "I try to see him fer Christmas, sometimes, y'know."

"I'm sorry," I could barely squeak out. "I just thought..."

"That I might be a bit of a bastard?" He let out something that was half-laugh, half-sigh. "Well, yeh wouldn't be wron..."

I interrupted him with an impassioned kiss on the mouth, hoping with every bit of myself that it was right, and yet not caring if it was wrong. He returned it eagerly, his lips so soft, pressing back at me with perfect pressure, and every worry I had melted away.

I don't even remember making our way up the two flights of steep stairs to my place. We were just in the front doorway, lips locked, my hands exploring every bit of his lean body without my say so, his free hand staying at my hips until we made it to the bed, where I threw off my coat and kicked away my heels.

"Yeh sure yeh want this?" he asked when our lips broke, my pulse beating in my temples with want as I laid back at the side of my bed.

"What?" I asked, sitting up, delirious, suddenly worried I'd done something wrong. My mind ran with possibilities. "Do you... not?"

"No no no no no," he tutted, his tone reassuring with a smile as he shook his head. "I just don't want yeh doin' not'in' yeh don't wanna do."

I still barely understood. This was far from my first time. But from the antics in boys' bedrooms while their parents were out of town to fooling around in the backs of cars to getting invited back to university dorms, no one had ever asked what I wanted. I didn't know why, but his question only made my desire grow deeper.

"I want to do this," I told him. "More than anything."

"Good," he said, his sharp teeth glinting in a streak of moonlight through the blinds. "I do, too."

Soon he was right on top of me again, lips caressing mine, his hardness pressing against me. Soon we would be doing _it_ , and the anticipation was too much because this time I'd _enjoy_ myself like the girls in school had always gossiped about. I'd finally be gratified by whatever nagging thing it was within me that coaxed me into private spaces with boys, allowing them to have their way with me.

"Did yeh wanna get undressed?" he teased me, and I nodded, discarding first my gloves and then my sweater, and my blouse and skirt and pantyhose. In my brassiere and underwear I began to feel self-conscious. Here I was, nearly in my birthday suit with this man, a stranger I somehow felt I knew better than anyone.

But as he, too, undressed, I simply couldn't turn away from him. Under his own hole-ridden, crusty coat he wore a long grey shirt with three buttons under the collar, all undone to reveal the tuft of hair on his chest, and beneath that, his bare torso was flat, and his lean arms sported a number of black tattoos that twined around him like passion vines. I'd always thought only brutes had tattoos, but he was anything but that. In fact, as I watched him, they assimilated with the image of him in my mind, and I couldn't picture him any other way.

And then he stripped off his pants and I didn't dare stare too long—it wouldn't be proper—oh, but how I wanted to look, and admire him.

He joined me back on the bed, settling not on top of me, but just to the side.

"Would yeh be more comfortable keepin' those on fer now?" he asked me gently, and when I nodded, his lips curled into a smile. "Yer beautiful. Would it be alright if I touched yer chest?"

I told him he could and his smile grew wider, and over the wire of my bra he played carefully with each breast, and my breath caught in my throat with each touch. This wasn't the fondling or fumbling touches I'd become used to. I felt this was a generous gift—for me, rather than him. He kissed the flesh-toned nylon over one breast, and the fact I barely felt it made a ball of frustration grow inside of me. It wouldn't be wise to feed it.

"Wait!" I called out, and he pulled both hands back, as if awaiting permission to resume. "No—I mean... _here_."

I sat up just enough to unbuckle the hooks of the brassiere and remove the straps, exposing myself for him as I tossed it to the side of the bed. His eyes seemed to sparkle in the low light.

"Please don't stop," I told him, and he resumed without hesitation.

This time as he massaged my chest, I moaned with each brush and press of his palm, and my whole body shuddered with pleasure when he breathed a gust of hot breath against each of their sensitive, suddenly hard tips. Now each kiss jolted me alive. It was as if he had something in him no one else had before—something volatile that brought my own inert essence to life.

"Can I keep on touchin' yeh?" he asked breathily, gesturing with his head down to my panties.

"You can touch me anywhere," I whispered back, and it was as much as invitation as a provocation. I couldn't hope for anything to be better than what he'd already done to me, but I was willing to try for anything that came remotely close.

He kissed my forehead, now, as his hand traced down from a tickle in my neck, down between my breasts, and along the curve of my tummy until they found their way into my underwear. Two strong fingers found my opening there, and I realized I was wet like I'd never been before with my need for him.

He grinned, and I expected him to make some snide remark, but he didn't.

"Now if yeh don't like anyt'in', tell me right off, yeah?" he said, and I promised I would.

I anticipated for his long fingers to plunge into me, then—in fact, my body yearned for it—but instead, his just-moistened digits concentrated on the swollen spot just above my entrance.

There was no time to question this bizarre action, because this delicious sensation was more intense than anything I'd felt in my 22 years. This was the purest pleasure, and stumbling upon it felt like some kind of cheat—an exploit of nature that mere mortals like us should have been denied.

The sounds escaping me now were more than moans—they were cries of joy, and with each little shout, he smiled down on me and I felt he might be something else, Prometheus sharing fire with a lowly mortal like me.

And then the feeling crescendoed into what I'd begun to think was only a myth. I wasn't prepared for it, how big it was, and how it commandeered my very sense of self, my body obeying its every command.

It took everything in me not to swear out loud as the heat of this sensation flowed through me, making my body buckle and tense with pleasure. Then I wanted to call out _his_ name, and to my despair I realized I didn't know it. Instead I shouted wordlessly, my pleasure forming into new, made-up utterances. In some language, these noises must have been his name.

I was panting, and sticky with sweat, when he pulled back his hand and smiled down on me again. Though my body was satisfied, my spirit wasn't. It wouldn't be until I'd had all of this wonderful stranger.

"Would yeh like another one o' those?" he asked me.

That was possible? I could barely let myself imagine it. And I didn't want to cheapen it. That had been enough of that for one wondrous night.

"No," I answered, feeling like I was in a dream. "Make love to me. Please."

I removed my panties and laid back, eager for him to ravish me. He seemed to take almost too long, rummaging in the pocket of his discarded coat for protection.

When he'd returned, his breath hot against my lips, and he entered me, the pleasure wasn't so concentrated, or intense. Instead, it was the intimacy of his closeness that I cherished, clutching him tighter with every slow thrust, memorizing his pleasured vocalizations and the lines of his flawless face, taking in the palate of his mouth against mine.

When he kissed me, I'd refuse to let him go. I never wanted to forget this, because if I was ever going to fall in love, this was it. This might be my only chance to have him, and I'd make this moment all mine.

At long last, he shivered and moaned like he'd made me moan, and he pressed his forehead against mine and we were finished. I lamented that we couldn't just be there in our embrace forever, and as he climbed off, laying beside me to regain his breath, it was just seconds before I found sound sleep cradled beneath his arm.

* * *

In the early morning, I awoke to a kiss on the lips. The day was still too young, the darkness outside all-encompassing, and his mouth dripped with the bitter taste of a goodbye.

"Before I go," he said, in barely a whisper, "please tell me yer name?"

"Eliana," I murmured back at him. "And yours?"

"The name's Cassidy," he said, and despite my drowsiness, I vowed never to forget it.

Then, with another kiss, he was gone. I don't recall returning to sleep, but when I awoke, I was convinced I'd dreamed the whole thing. It had been too perfect, too convenient. Something like that could never happen to me.

I became convinced of it, too, until the morning, when I found the confetti-like sprig of witch hazel, with its tendril petals, poking out of the top button hole of my coat, and his handkerchief in my pocket, and later, half of a cheese pizza in the fridge.

It had all been real. I wasn't sure if that were better or worse. I got the sick feeling in my stomach that I would carry this with me forever. I felt like crying, and though the aura of devastation lingered and left me dizzy, tears didn't come. They never would.

I didn’t even know if Cassidy was his first or last name. Just _Cassidy_. But that was enough. Because whatever I believed, it was Christmas, and I was in love with him.

**Author's Note:**

> I know this is one long first chapter, so thank you so much for taking a chance on it and reading. I hope you liked reading it even half as much as I loved dreaming it up. Please don't be shy about leaving a comment if the urge strikes—and stay tuned for its conclusion in the near future!


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